"Sure is a long time to be stagnant," he says.
Something about that statement stays with me, like a strand of celery stuck in between my back molars.Annoying and niggling and not going anywhere without significant digging.
Maybe I should ask Dale if I can borrow the excavator for my mind.
I’m on-site for hours, collecting way more footage than I need for a three-minute clip.My work won’t be wasted.I’ll be able to make a lot of videos from what I recorded today, if I can focus long enough tonight.Next-week me will certainly appreciate that her job is already done.
But even as I spend the rest of the evening at the desktop in the office editing, I can’t stop thinking about stagnation.It’s not just for sewage!It’s me.Ever since I was a little girl, all I’ve ever wanted was stability and predictability.
Probably because I never had it at home.
It’s not hard to psychoanalyze.Freshman Psych 101 kind of stuff really.No matter how hard I’ve worked to repress the memories, they’re still there.The first night Mom dropped us off at Gram and Gramps’s house, I thought it was just a sleepover.But I remember the worried looks my grandparents gave each other and the artificially sweet tone to their voices as they kept saying, "Everything will be okay."
As a five-year-old, I had no reason to suspect otherwise.Until that one night turned into weeks and then months.I remember crying myself to sleep but trying to keep it quiet so I didn’t wake Richie and so Gram didn’t get upset.
She was upset a lot.
At first, I thought it was because of us, something we’d done.Gram never yelled at us, but I could still tell she wasn’t happy.When Mom returned, it was a different story.There was a lot of yelling that night.It was so dark and so late, but Mom said we had to go home.
I was excited.I’d missed my house and the dog who lived next door.He was a great fluffy golden retriever named Hamilton.I think I missed Hamilton most of all.But where she took us was a small apartment where Richie and I had to share a bed.It wasn’t home.Being with Mom never felt like home again.
There was a man there.He smelled weird.Immediately, I didn’t like him.The feeling was mutual.
This was the start of a long cycle of the same scenario over and over again until Gram and Gramps put their foot down and said we weren’t moving out anymore.
Once we went to live with Gram and Gramps for good, things were more stable for sure, but Mom was still in and out.That was the thing—we’d never know when she was going to blow into or out of town.We didn’t know whom she’d be dating—or married to—and how long she’d stay.
The only thing predictable about her was her unpredictability.
Richie and I swore we’d never be like that.We’d never let the dude flavor of the month rule our lives.We were gonna put sisters before misters.We were gonna live for us.
Except Richie stopped living in the physical sense, and I never lived in the metaphorical sense.I refuse to take risks and chances.I want to know what’s coming next.And if you can’t guarantee me a happy ending, I don’t want any part of it.
But even as much as I planned, I couldn’t predict Richie getting sick, let alone dying.I couldn’t predict that my best friend would be gone forever and I’d be stuck here, doing the same thing day in and day out for the rest of my life.
Suddenly, the predictability feels less and less stable and more and more smothering.My ears start to ring as the periphery of my vision gets dark.The vise tightens on my chest as air refuses to enter my lungs.Oh good, maybe I’m dying too, and then I won’t have to figure out where I’ve gone so wrong in my twenty-nine years here on this earth.I frantically look around, trying to find something—anything—to ground me.
In case I forgot to mention, Richie was my emotional support person for my panic attacks.I used to joke that I didn’t need a service animal as long as I had her.Joke’s on me.
But seriously, if I don’t do something, I’m going to puke or pass out or maybe die because I’m pretty sure you have to keep breathing to live.I grab the edge of the desk, hoping the pressure on my hands interrupts this impending and imminent spiral.It doesn’t.I reach for my purse, thinking that an Altoid might help.I’ve apparently lost all motor control as my hand jerks, sending my crossbody careening to the ground.
Since I hadn’t bothered zippering the bag all the way, the contents spill out, skittering across the floor.Shit.I drop to my hands and knees, attempting to retrieve my belongings.My hands grasp at the items, but I seem to lack the motor coordination to efficiently clean up my mess.Last thing I need is for the guys to come in and see tampons all over the linoleum.As I shove my personal items back into my purse, my gaze fixes on the folded piece of looseleaf.
With trembling hands, I unfold it, taking in my sister’s messy script.
Dear Rachel,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead, and you’re probably crying.It’s time to knock that shit off and put on real pants.Don’t even try to lie to me and tell me you’re wearing hard pants.I’ll haunt your ass.
If I didn’t have this stupid brain tumor, these are the things I’d want to accomplish in my life.I know they seem pretty frivolous, and that’s a luxury I certainly don’t have, so why not ask you to do them?I know you’re rolling your eyes at me, but humor me this last time, won’t you?Plus, even though these are the things I want to do, I think they’d be good for you.You worry too much, and I won’t be there to talk you down.Maybe if you step outside your comfort zone, even a tiny bit, things won’t be so hard after I’m gone.You need to live a little, and this list will help you do that.You only live once.Oh, and I know we promised that we wouldn’t be like Mom, and you aren’t, so don’t feel guilty about number 9.Everyone should do that once.It’s too late for me.No one will want to screw a bald chick with a brain tumor.I’m going to die a virgin, so you have to do this for me.
Live Like You’re Dying
Go somewhere on a plane by yourself
Jump out of a plane.Just kidding.But at least go parasailing once.
Go to a casino
